


The Long History

by azurefishnets



Category: Pyre (Video Game)
Genre: mutual indirectness leading to mutual pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:40:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21939832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azurefishnets/pseuds/azurefishnets
Summary: Volfred finds himself in a position to ask Tariq everything he ever wanted to know. He doesn't do it quite right.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	The Long History

**Author's Note:**

  * For [laughingpineapple](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laughingpineapple/gifts).



The Blackwagon was too loud, too bright this evening, the inhabitants trying too desperately to bolster themselves against the inevitable pain of loss. The second Rite had taken place; Rukey Greentail had ascended to his rightful station above, and those below mourned their loss even as they celebrated their time with him. This was right and correct, but the party bid fair to overwhelm Volfred’s senses. After some time, he blinked away, knowing that the Reader would, as ever, know his mind and make his excuses if, indeed, any were to note his absence.

This moonlit alcove was peaceful and serene. The sun’s light but rarely illuminated this shady vale, hidden as it was by the hulk of the ancient Titan, but it seemed eternally lit by moon’s light, gleaming off the rocks and crags in uninterrupted silver purity. It was easy to believe that the Scribes might have spent time here composing the Books, perhaps speaking of weighty matters as they prepared their own Plans. The great Lu Sclorian Hundred-Minds in debate with the stern matriarch Triesta Tithis. Ha’ub the Swallow taking task with the wild witch Molten Milithe. Soliam Murr on his lonely vigil, ever with his eyes onward.

Volfred turned his eyes to the stars, mostly still, despite their dire warnings, shining softly far above. This was how he wanted to spend this evening, he thought, in contemplation of the Scribes and their works, the history of their world. It was a pity, in a way, that none of the Nightwings save perhaps the Reader were much interested in that history; Sandra might be able to tell him more, but her brashness and insults were not to his taste in this soft night.

As if in answer to his wishes, the breeze carried the soft thrilling of notes from further into the alcove. Volfred turned to it like a compass swinging, no more able to resist the magnetic pull of the music than a compass needle could a lodestone. He could have blinked to the Herald’s side, yet the music seemed to say, “ _Tarry a while, go slowly and reverently_ ,” and Volfred was never one to resist the solemnity of a good entrance.

Thus, he took a moment to move gently over the uneven ground, his roots sliding through the black and silky soil and taking as much nourishment from the ground below as he took from the music above. At last, he reached the Lone Minstrel’s perch, solitary no more in this moment. Tariq obligingly allowed the music to find its natural end as Volfred moved to his side, and at last, they met in silence. Volfred was loath to break the spell and Tariq, as ever, obliged him by allowing the silence to grow and expand to fill the space between them.

At last, Volfred pulled out his pipe and went through the ritual all pipe-smokers know: packing, tamping, the false light, the true light. At last, he drew in a long breath through the stem and exhaled a stream of aromatic smoke. Tariq’s eyes followed the tenebrous haze as it wafted away on the breeze.

When Volfred spoke, it was conversational. “I have wondered before, friend Herald, about the Scribes and the places they walked. I wonder if our long acquaintance may allow me to make so bold as to speculate on their time here?”

“One may always speculate, sir.” Tariq’s voice in the dark was neutral, holding no promises.

A little uncertainly, Volfred said, “They walked here, and wrote their Rites here, on Mount Alodiel.”

“Aye, indeed they did.”

“Lu Sclorian may have stood where now I do.”

“I do not believe he ever did, sir. Hundred-Minds was always one for the day. His roots were ever grounded in sunlight.”

“Is that so? I myself have always found the moon’s radiance much more rejuvenating.”

Tariq’s lips quirked in a faint smile. “That is no surprise, sir.”

“I suppose not.” Volfred thought for a moment. “Then, the Wild Witch. Perhaps she slithered these lands?”

“Oh, aye, in passing. I believe she landed just over there, in her precipitous flight down the mountain after Sung-Gries’s demise.” Tariq gestured at a spot indistinguishable from any other.”

“Tariq…”

“Aye, sir?”

“How could—no. I trust you know whereof you speak.”

“You are puzzled, Volfred sir, regarding my knowledge of the Scribes in all its minutiae?”

“I am. But I shall not ask if you do not wish to speak of it.”

“Nay, sir, to you and you alone, I do not mind speaking of the lost past.”

“Would you speak thus to the Reader, were _they_ to ask?” Volfred took another inhale on his pipe. Perhaps he could have phrased that more delicately, but he found himself longing to know whether this connection he and the Minstrel shared was something Tariq might have with any Reader.

“…Nay, Volfred sir. The Reader is… a shining soul, and the hope of the Nightwings, but they are not ready for these truths. Perhaps they never shall be. But for you, I will tell you all that you wish to know, for I know that knowledge is your highest goal. And should you choose to share it yourself, that is your decision and I know that you will make the right one.”

Volfred paused. Even in that veritable torrent of words, so unusual from the normally reticent Minstrel, there was something there that Tariq was leaving unspoken, something Volfred was unsure how to approach. And so, Volfred turned to the Scribes instead, asking the questions every historian would die to know, and wiling away the unquiet hours with many an unexpurgated tale that certainly had not made it into the Book of Rites.

Somewhere, the sun was rising and a new day dawned, but Volfred found himself flagging. Sleepily, he asked one last importunate question, the one he had longed to know from the beginning: “And how did you meet them?”

Tariq hesitated, just the tiniest bit. “I have promised to answer, Volfred sir, and I will, but that tale is long and not quickly told. Suffice it to say, for now, that they live in Celeste and me, as we lived with them. It was… what they Willed.”

“That is no answer.” Volfred yawned, knocking out the dottle in his pipe and putting it away. “But I shall ask you again someday.”

“On that day, Volfred sir, I shall answer without fail.”

Volfred stretched, his roots already sliding deep into the ground. Tariq watched him for a moment, but the Sap was asleep, a smile still on his face from the enjoyable discussion. Tariq smiled too, just a little, and patted the strap of his lute that ran over where his heart would be, then went to seek out the Reader and the rest of the Nightwings.

In the moons that followed, they never had the opportunity to speak that frankly again before the Reader sent Volfred on his ascent, but Volfred never forgot. By night, he watched the skies as the stars disappeared and asked the listening moon all the questions of that night and more, but that quiet sphere kept its own counsel and Volfred was left to wonder anew what the Scribes had truly Willed.


End file.
